Kill All Assassins
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Post TRF John, Sherlock and Mary are back living in London, when someone from Mary's past turns up. Someone who tried to kill her six years ago. Someone who is suppose to be dead. Sequel to Far From Over. Rated M - Chapter 2. And So It Begins
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is the sequel **_**to Far From Over**_**. If you haven't read it you might want to first. It was my first story so please be gentle. There's a lot I would change. There are some things I wrote for that first story I really like and there are some things that make me cringe, but as that is the past I shall now move on. **

**Now saying that here's why I am publishing this:**

**This has been sitting on my desktop since August. I was reading through my writing file and came across it. I have over 7000 words written so I thought I'd throw it out there and see what happens. I think I didn't pursue it because my writing took a different direction, but there some great lines in this first chapter that I'd hate to see disappear. Also I like my Mary and she is feeling neglected.**

**First bit is some background information to help catch you up from the first story. So here goes.**

**Don't own. That pleasure belongs to BBC, Doyle, Gatiss and Moffatt.**

The story takes place the January after the events in Far From Over.

Kill All Assassins

Chapter 1. Like a Bad Penny

Mrs. Hudson was visiting Mrs. Turner. It was the first time since Christmas they'd had a chance to have a proper sit down. After both were supplied with a cup of tea and some of Martha's homemade biscuits, Mrs. Turner asked Mrs. Hudson how things were going with all the carrying on at 221B Baker Street, with people being dead and coming back to life and a mysterious woman from foreign parts showing up. Mrs. Hudson said don't be ridiculous Mary wasn't all that foreign. She was Canadian after all and that was almost as good as being British, but with an accent.

Poor Mrs. Turner really did not get a word in edgewise after that.

Mrs. Hudson started telling Mrs. Turner all about everything, because they really hadn't had time for a proper chat and she had to start all the way back to four months ago when her doorbell had rung and there standing at the back door were _both _her boys. Mrs. Hudson had not been terribly worried about John for the six months previous because she had believed him to be living in Canada with a friend. She hadn't heard from him, but it was okay because she had hoped that he might be happy and it was good for him to get away from all the sadness here in London. And besides did she know anyone who keeps in touch with former landladies? She had almost fainted when she had seen who was with him. She had been terribly upset and angry with him, Lord knows there was no one on earth who could make her as angry as Sherlock Holmes. Coming back to life like that. He'd be the death of her if he kept up with his silliness and nonsense. After explaining how and why Sherlock had faked his own death and how John had found him again or Sherlock had found John and explaining all that they had been up to, although they had left out a good deal, even she could see that. She had forgiven them both for lying to her, because they were, after all was said and sifted _her_ boys. And then the next day John had brought around the friend from Canada and the friend had turned out to be a lovely young woman by the name of Mary, well that was even better.

And now John and Sherlock were back to all that detective business and there had been some dangerous cases, they both looked so much better and more settled. John and Mary must be having a few ups and downs. When they had come back to London and all three of them living in the flat, she was sure Mary and Sherlock must not have got along very much, although she really didn't hear fighting between those two. It was mostly John and Sherlock that ever got into a row. Anyone could see that Mary was a quiet person, just like herself and probably didn't condone with all this violence and up all hours of the night business. Did Mrs. Turner know that Mary taught martial arts? She was quite good apparently, but she liked working with the little ones. You know now that she had a job, it would only be a matter of time before Mary ended up moving. And with John out all hours following after Sherlock and working shifts at the surgery, well he was just going to make himself sick and she sincerely hoped that those two young people, John and Mary that is and not John and Sherlock, although there was a time, well she surely hoped that John was going to settle down with that Mary girl because anyone could see they were just right for each other. But of course that would leave Sherlock without anyone and that did worry her because really John seemed to be the only one who could keep him in line and make him behave halfway decent.

And then Mrs. Hudson had to leave to go get something on for tea because look at the time. Who would have thought the afternoon could have gone by so fast. The next time she saw Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Turner would have to let her know everything that was new with her married ones, but there simply wasn't time right now.

After Mrs. Hudson left, Mrs. Turner had to go and have a lie down, because she felt a headache coming on.

oOo

Next Morning

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the table in the front room at 221B Baker Street reading the newspaper. He had actually been reading several, as there was a small pile on the floor beside his chair. He was dressed in his usually attire of designer trousers, form fitting shirt, and expensive leather shoes. The addition of a housecoat made it appear as if he were taking breakfast at a grand manor rather than a Bohemian style flat in central London. He'd been sitting there for 20 minutes precisely, when he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs from the bedroom above.

His best friend, colleague and flatmate, John Watson came into the room, whistling. Sherlock noted there was a rather jaunty air about him. He narrowed his eyes as he rather quickly deduced the reason for John's demeanor.

Sherlock turned back to the paper he was reading. He drawled out in a bored tone, "Last night _and_ this morning. Well done. Didn't think you had it in you. You _are _getting older. I'm sure Mary's happy you can…"

"Stop right there. Keep it in your head," John said firmly, but with out rancor or breaking stride as he went into the kitchen to make some toast and coffee.

Mary came down a few minutes later, as she was wrapping a green and blue bead necklace around her right wrist. She took one look at Sherlock as he opened his mouth and said "One word and I'll hide your microscope for a week." He closed his mouth with an audible snap. She walked into the kitchen to give John a hand. She _would_ hide his microscope too. She'd done it the last time he had commented on their relationship. She'd hid it so well, John had been forced to intervene. A manic and annoyed Sherlock was not conducive for a peaceful existence. John decided that Mary had been right when she had described her relationship with Sherlock as that of siblings. She'd actually said that she regarded Sherlock as an annoying, older brother. The way they treated each other was certainly similar to the way he and Harry got on, at least the way they got on when they were teenagers. He'd hoped that Mary would be the mature one in their relationship, but he'd discovered somewhat to his dismay and occasionally to his sense of humour, that she gave as good as she got.

Sherlock said nothing about Mary's comment, but there may have been a slight smirk playing about his lips.

Mary came back into the room a few minutes later holding two mugs and balancing a plate with toast on top of one. She set the mugs down on the table and removed the plate from the top of the mug. She then reached over and set a mug in front of Sherlock before sitting across the table from him. Sherlock didn't say anything, he just continued reading his paper.

Mary took a sip from her mug and looked pointedly at Sherlock. When he still continued to read in silence she spoke up.

"The words you're searching for are 'thank you'."

Sherlock folded the edge of the paper down glanced at her, down at the mug and back at Mary.

He paused, "Thank you," in the same bored tone. He continued to read as if there had been no interruption.

"Your welcome," she said pleasantly as she reached down and pulled a paper off of the floor.

John came in at that moment with a mug and two plates of toast, one of which was balanced on his arm, like a waiter. He also set everything down before he placed a plate beside Sherlock's right elbow.

Mary pointedly cleared her throat.

Without looking this time, the words, "Thank you, John," came out of his mouth in a slightly less bored tone than he had used with Mary.

John smiled, "You're welcome," having witnessed a similar turn of events almost every morning since Mary had been living with them. It was really very nice to have back up once in a while.

Everyone sat in silence for a few minutes, quietly munching, sipping and ruffling pages. Mary glanced at her watch.

"Car will be here soon."

Sherlock glanced up from his paper, narrowed his eyes and took a closer look at Mary. Normally he didn't bother.

_Black dress trousers_

_White blouse, with lace collar_

_Black cashmere cardigan_

_The earrings John gave her for Christmas_

_Gold necklace, gift from her father for 16__th__ birthday_

_Not her usual casual attire_

He threw down the newspaper in a bit of a snit.

"Mycroft," he hrumped.

"He said he had something he wished to speak with me about. He arranged a meeting for this morning. I am hoping he's not going to try to offer me a job again. It's a bit tedious having to turn him down all the time."

"It's rather nice that he doesn't kidnap you," said John a tad wistfully.

Mary just smiled at him. Mycroft, for all his faults, had old world manners. In some things he was a gentleman when it came to how he treated of women. Not that he'd always given her that consideration.

Sherlock huffed and muttered something under his breath as he snapped his paper.

"I'm not planning on joining the dark side," she addressed Sherlock.

John chuckled quietly.

Sherlock looked up at Mary, confusion evident on his face. She wished she had her camera.

"Ah," he finally said "cultural reference."

"_Star Wars_," quipped John looking up from the sports section.

"That inane space movie you forced me to watch."

John smirked, "I thought what Mary said was funny. Imagine Mycroft as the Emperor."

"You realize that means you and Sherlock are with the Rebel Alliance, you know."

"What does that make you?" he asked

"Oh, you know," she said. "I'll be the former assassin who everyone thinks is working for the Empire, but turns out to be a rebel spy."

"I love you," he said.

She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling, before returning to her paper. "I'm actually more into _Star Trek_. Can't wait for the new movie in the spring. The guy who's playing the villain is hot." John choked on his coffee. She ignored him.

She glanced up at Sherlock. "You know, if you ever got those emotions under control you'd make a good Spock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes not at all interested in getting caught up in any more asinine and childish comments. His emotions were always perfectly in control.

He did however say, "I'm so glad I do not waste my time and clutter my brain with useless movie trivia."

"Could be worse," she said as she raised her coffee mug to take a sip. "I could inundate you with Canadian trivia, you know hockey scores, types of beer, national symbols. I have lots of that," she glanced out the window and put her mug down. "Oops. Gotta scoot." She smiled at John, leaned over and gave him a very deep kiss.

"I'll see you later? After your shift?" she asked.

"Hmmm, yeah I think so. As long as nothing comes up," he said with a nod in Sherlock's direction. "Call me later? Let me know how you get on?" A thin line of worry creased his forehead. He was wondering what on earth Mycroft could possibly want from her. In the past it hadn't necessarily been good for her health. Mary and Mycroft did not have the best of relationships. She lifted up her hand and gently rubbed the crease, as she tried to take the worry away.

"I'll be fine," she said reassuringly. "I'm not working today. I'm going to spend some time with Mrs. Hudson, afterwards."

She grabbed her purse and put her coat on as she headed out the door, whistling _The Imperial March_ from _Star Wars _as she left.

John, feeling slightly less anxious, chuckled quietly, as he picked up the dishes off the table and took them into the kitchen. He came out soon after.

"Well I'm off to the surgery. Should be home by five."

"Hmmm? Yes," said Sherlock, not really listening.

oOo

As Mary came out of 221, a sleek black car was waiting for her. The driver got out and came around to open the door for her. She climbed in and sat back against the soft, warm leather. Even though she had been joking with John and Sherlock, she was pensive and wondered what Mycroft could possibly want from her. He seemed to have finally accepted that she was not interested in working for him. She didn't entirely trust him given the events of last year.

She stayed deep in thought for most of the ride, only to come back to her surroundings as they pulled up to the building where Mycroft Holmes' had his public office.

The receptionist at the front desk directed her and she arrived at his office. His personal secretary offered to take her coat from her and showed her to a chair. The secretary informed via the phone on her desk that Ms. Morstan had arrived. Mary waited quietly, trying not to jiggle her leg, something she sometimes did when she was nervous.

The door to Mycroft's office opened.

"Ah, Ms. Morstan, so lovely to see you again," he ushered her in. He asked his secretary to bring in tea for the two of them and directed her to a chair, not in front of his desk but off to the side where there was a small grouping of two chairs and a coffee table in front of a fire. He joined her by taking the other chair.

They made small talk, discussing the occupants of 221B without going into details. He asked her how she was settling and was she enjoying her life in London. She knew he was trying to make her more at ease before he got to the point, but she found that it was actually making her intuition kick in and she was becoming tense. This was no ordinary meeting.

The secretary came in with a tray, which she set on the table between the two of them. Mycroft offered to pour the tea and handed her a cup, clear, 1 sugar.

She accepted with thanks and quietly sipped her tea wondering when Mycroft was going to get to the point.

He sat looking at her with steepled fingers, before he slowly reached over and pulled a manila folder off of the table.

She set her cup down and took the folder from him. Inside was a photograph, taken from CCTV footage enlarged, of a man in his early thirties, dark hair, handsome, of Western European descent.

She looked carefully at the photo and felt the colour drain from her face. She glanced back at Mycroft.

"When and where?" she asked, pleased that her voice was steady.

"Two days ago, near Queen's Gate and Prince Consort Road. Outside the Bulgarian Embassy in fact, although we have no way of knowing if that is why he was there. We were able to track his movements for about a half an hour before and after the time stamp on the camera and then he disappears. We have not picked him up on any cameras since. I have discreetly sent his photograph around to various law enforcement agencies with the understanding that he is to be regarded as highly dangerous."

Mary looked up from the picture, although she had a hard time drawing her eyes away from it.

"But how is that possible? He's been dead for almost six years," her voice shook a little.

Mycroft frowned and there was actually a hint of worry in his eyes. "That we do not know."

To say she was not reassured would be an understatement.

oOo

After Mary left he asked for Anthea to come in. She entered, Blackberry in hand.

"I would like you to personally continue to oversee the distribution of security around my brother and Dr. Watson, Ms. Morstan, Detective Inspector Lestrade and I think we shall add Mrs. Hudson as well while we are at it. Check to make sure everything is in place and then you are to follow Mary personally."

Anthea looked at him. For the first time in all the years she had worked for him he was assigning her to someone other than himself. He must be far more worried than he appeared.

He wasn't finished speaking. "They are not to know that I am this concerned."

She nodded and left to make her preparations. He sat back in the chair by the fire. He hadn't felt like this since the day his baby brother had to leave and go off into the world to hunt monsters.


	2. 2 And So It Begins

**A/N: Usually from Mary's point of view a lot of her vocabulary will be Canadian. She will use the odd British phrase. Anyone immersed in a culture tends to pick up slang and cultural words. It makes you feel less like an outsider. On a side not, not that I am living in England anywhere except my head, my family has been giving me weirder looks than normal because I keep slipping in the odd British phrase. I live in this universe probably more than I should. Anyway the point being (I do tend to stray from the point!) she will probably have a few words in her vocabulary that are British, but most that are ingrained Canadian. That being said if any other characters do something not British I apologize. It is harder to slip back and forth between the two than to try to write in one culture. **

**EE & JAL – eyebrow alert – lol!**

**Some mild swearing – so it begins! Possible triggers of torture – not graphic and just briefly mentioned.**

2. And So It Begins

Mycroft's car pulled up in front of 221B. Before the driver could open the door Mary hopped out. She shut the car door behind her and stood there as the car pulled away, Mycroft's folder clutched tightly in her hand. She looked at the door of the flat, and wondered what her next move should be. This was not something she wanted to bring home today or any day.

Cold air whipped around her and she decided becoming a Popsicle wasn't going to help the situation in any way, shape or form and would only be a benefit to the man in the photograph.

Mary opened the outer doorand climbed the stairs, slowly. She walked into the quiet flat. Sherlock's coat was missing so he must be out. She had hoped he was going to be there and she had been afraid he would be. He'd want to know about this, but she didn't want to tell him. She hung her own coat up and carefully placed the folder on the coffee table as if it might bite her. Her hands shook slightly.

She made tea and sat on the couch and looked once again at the picture of a man who had died six years ago.

Lukas Hirsch

Her thoughts tumbled and bumped up against one another as she remembered what he had been like before…before Moran had come and messed up their lives. If it hadn't been for Moran she might be married to Lukas.

If it hadn't have been for Lukas, Moran might not have caught her.

If, if, if…

She sighed. She would not have met John if those things had not happened and John was an infinitely better man than Lukas would ever have been.

She put away her mug, climbed up to the bedroom she shared with John and changed into more comfortable clothes. She was going to spend the day with Mrs. Hudson. They were going to put up some cooking for the week. Mary found some normality and comfort in time spent with the older woman and was very fond of her. Mary's mother had died when she was twelve and her father when she was twenty-one. Most of her extended family was also dead and those that were left she wasn't very close to. Ever since Mary had come to stay at 221B, they had spent a lot of time getting to know each other. Mary had felt a bit guilty because she had not told Mrs. Hudson she was a former assassin. She had asked John, Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft not tell her either. When John had asked her why, she had replied that it would be nice to have one other person besides the four of them who didn't look at her as if she was going to kill them in their sleep. John had tried to assure her that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't think any less of her, but she had been adamant. She said she'd tell her about it someday, but not yet.

After changing she made her way down to 221A and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson welcomed her in with a warm smile and a cup of tea.

She often came downstairs to help Mrs. Hudson with the cooking. Mary was an indifferent cook, having a few fallback recipes she was confident would turn out okay without killing anyone. She had started helping Mrs. Hudson because Mrs. Hudson was finding that her arthritis was acting up this winter and it was difficult for her to cut vegetables. Mary would take over chopping and dicing and cleaning up the kitchen during these sessions.

"It always amazes me, dear, how good you are with knives. You cut up those vegetables so fast. You should be working in a restaurant doing that."

Mrs. Hudson had often remarked on this skill. If John and Sherlock happened to be in the vicinity, John would choked on what ever he was eating or drinking and then would carefully step on Sherlock's feet to prevent him from saying why it was obvious she was handy with knives.

The light from the window hit the knife she was using and it gleamed.

_A long, thin, sharp knife, raised above her head catches a gleam of light._

She paused, squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

"Are you alright dear? You look a bit peaky."

She shook her head to clear the image and smiled shakily at Mrs. Hudson.

"Just a headache. I think I've finished the chopping."

She managed through the rest of the afternoon.

After awhile she heard the clatter on the stairs that signaled the return of Sherlock. Her stomach tightened and sweat broke out on her forehead at the thought of the file that waited on the table, more from the memories sharing the information with the detective would dredge up than anything else, memories she preferred to remain buried. She quickly finished cleaning up and excused herself from Mrs. Hudson to make her way up the stairs.

He was sitting on the couch with the file in his hand; he looked up at her when she walked in, a quiet sympathy in his eyes that looked as if it had been placed on the wrong person. She saw him as the big brother she never had. She hadn't quite decided what were his feelings toward her. Usually he treated her, not exactly with indifference, more like he didn't quite know what to do with her, like she was a piece of a puzzle he didn't know how to fit into his idea of a solution. It was disconcerting when he turned the full force of his thoughts upon her, when he normally avoided eye contact.

In a surprisingly gentle voice he said, "It appears that I am not the only one to return from the dead."

"The difference is you weren't really dead and we know Lukas is."

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly, without his usual sarcasm, as he shifted his gaze back to the photo, "seeing as I am the one who killed him."

oOo

John arrived back at the flat in fairly decent time. The trip home had been surprisingly without incident. Work had been steady enough to not be draining, with nothing life threatening or tragic to mar the day.

He knew, deep down, it was too good to last.

He entered the flat to see Sherlock sitting on the couch, jacket removed, shirtsleeves rolled up, elbows on knees, staring intently at a bunch of papers and a few photographs fanned out on the coffee table. It must be a new case, but fairly recent, because he hadn't started decorating the walls of the flat with evidence yet.

"New case?"

"Hmmm? Oh, good your home. About time. We have a bit of a situation." He didn't bother to look up.

"Oh?"

"Yes. A man I killed almost six years ago suddenly turned up very much alive."

"Wait, you killed someone six years ago? What?"

"Yes, seeing as he was about to kill Mary, you should be grateful."

John could not looked more confused and astonished if he'd tried.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock finally looked up at John and took in his friend's body language and expression. He frowned, eyes darted as he contemplated the man before him. His eyes cleared as he pieced it together.

"Ah, she didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?" John found himself trying very hard to keep up with the conversation and not loose his temper with either of his partners. Part of him was now wondering where she was so he could discuss calmly and rationally why she had neglected to inform him that Sherlock had killed someone to save her life. Not that he wasn't grateful, just very, very confused. And a little angry.

Sherlock handed the photograph to John.

"Lukas Hirsch. He was in the same program as Mary. Unfortunately he decided to throw his lot in with Moran when Moran was attempting to overthrow certain governments in his bid for power." He paused, certain in his knowledge of John's reaction to the next piece of news. "He was also responsible for leading Moran to where Mary was the night she was captured." He noted the tightening of John's facial muscles. John looked at the picture as if he wished to be alone with it and take it apart bit by bit.

John swallowed hard and clamped down on his feelings. He knew it wasn't going to do Mary any good to lose control. At least not until he figured out where this man was and make sure he was dead.

_Back up a minute._

"You said something about him being dead?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded. "Moran had left him behind, presumably to kill her. Moran ran when he realized we were coming for him." Sherlock paused, stared at John as if judging to see how well he was handling this information. He continued,

"Hirsch was there when I found her," he paused again. "I killed him."

John looked up at Sherlock. The two men stared at each other for a long minute, silently communicating things that were better left unsaid.

John had wrongly assumed, during the time Sherlock had tracked down what was left of Moriarty's web that was the first time the detective had ever killed anyone. Then he remembered Sherlock's reaction to the treatment of Mrs. Hudson by the CIA agent. That man had been thrown out a window for striking and roughing up Mrs. Hudson. What Mary had suffered at Moran's hands had been much worse.

"I assume Mary hasn't told you because…"

John interrupted, "She said she doesn't remember much from the last day. She has never said anything about you killing anyone, let alone Hirsch." He swallowed again as he glanced down at the photo. He looked more closely at the date.

"But it looks like he was alive, what, at least three days ago according to that picture."

Sherlock nodded.

John glanced around the flat, "Where's Mary? Is she still with Mrs. Hudson?"

"No, she went out for a run about 20 minutes ago. She said she wouldn't be long."

"You mean you let her go for a run when there's someone out there who tried to kill her and is now in London and might try again?" Now he let all of the anger that had been building flow into his voice. He made to move toward the door as if to run out after her.

"John, stop."

John whipped his head around, his eyes narrowed.

"You can't go after her."

"Why the hell not?"

"John, what do you think her reaction would be if you tried to stop her or went after her?"

John paused, the head of steam that was ready to blow, dissipated, fairly rapidly. He thought of the short red head with the matching fiery temper and the propensity to swear at him when he was being particularly obtuse. He puffed out a breath and pursed his lips.

"She'll be angry."

"What does she do when she's angry?"

"She throws things."

"What was she trained to throw at people? With lethal force might I add?"

"Knives," he slumped his shoulders in defeat, anger defused in the face of Sherlock's questions. "How did you get so good at relationships?"

"I am not good at relationships. I have studied why people kill each other and I think you trying to be over protective may constitute as motive for Mary to murder you. I'd rather she didn't. One, her favourite method of dispatching people tends to be messy, two I'd have to have her arrested, if I didn't kill her first, three…"

"Okay, okay I get the point," John waved off the detective. He paused, "You'd kill her if she murdered me?"

"Yes, John."

"Hmm, good to know."

"You should know she has said the same thing to me, although the indication was I'd likely get you killed rather than killing you myself. I really cannot believe I'd have reason for murdering you. At least not at the moment."

"I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with the way this conversation is going."

Sherlock tilted his head and looked carefully at John. John couldn't be sure, but he thought he detected a glimmer of humour in Sherlock's eyes. "Of course if I did murder you, I would know exactly how to get rid of the evidence in such a way that no one would know I had anything to do with it. Maybe I'd frame someone." He leaned back, the glimmer turning into a definite twinkle, "It bears consideration."

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt a sensation of relief. He knew John was very angry. John angry was not always good, especially if people he loved were in danger. He acted impulsively. He didn't want to try to have to stop John from running out and hunting down Hirsch. Not until Sherlock figured out how he could possibly be alive and what his plans were.

Then he'd let John kill him. Likely he'd do a better job than Sherlock had.

"Any ideas?" John asked as he waved the photo at Sherlock.

"Several. Two are foremost in my thoughts as being most likely, but I require more information. Mycroft is currently searching for that as we speak."

oOo

Anthea had left. That meant that Mycroft was left to deal with subordinates, who while good and well trained to do their job, were not Anthea.

He waited, somewhat impatiently, for someone to bring him the information both he and his brother required. Information that might help to solve the odd little puzzle of Lukas Hirsch showing up in London three days ago, very much alive, despite the fact that Sherlock had put a bullet in his head, in a fit of controlled rage over what had been done to Mary Morstan.

Not that he blamed him.

He rather felt that way himself, despite the fact at the time he had believed she had been trying to kill him. He had been grievously wrong, which may have lead to her capture, a situation for which he was still trying to make amends.

He rubbed wearily at his forehead, but sat up quickly when his door suddenly opened and a junior aide appeared clutching a large envelope in his hand.

"This was just sent to you sir. From Munich. It's marked urgent and for your eyes only."

Mycroft accepted the envelope from the aide. He waited until he was once again alone.

He slit open the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper and more photographs.

His eyebrow moved in an upward direction as if independent of the rest of his facial muscles.

"Interesting."

oOo

Although the park was somewhat busy, the cold winter day and the fading light had driven the greater part of the population away. Mary was nearing the end of her run. And the end of how much she was able to take tonight.

She had needed to leave the flat after telling Sherlock about the photograph and discussing Mycroft's information, what little he had.

She had felt highly claustrophobic the longer the discussion went on and she had wondered if she was hearing or seeing things. Memories suppressed for too long floated closer to the surface. The scars on her back, long since healed and faded in some places, twitched in sympathetic pain. She had left the flat quickly after changing into her running shoes, yelling over her shoulder on the way out that she'd be back soon. She didn't even know if Sherlock had heard her. She ran without warming up, which was incredibly stupid on such a cold evening.

It was instinctive and it was necessary.

She couldn't contain her feelings any more.

Feelings that had been building all day.

_This is why you are supposed to go through therapy and purge some of these images._

_Long, thin rivulets of blood ran down her back._

She stopped abruptly; it felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach, as the image assailed her and she placed her hands on her knees, her head bent, trying to catch her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut. She waited until the picture and the feelings went away.

_This is stupid. You need to go back to the flat before you have a full-blown panic attack. You need to talk to John. He'll be home by now._

_A long, thin, sharp knife, raised above her head catches a gleam of light._

_Oh Christ, I'm going to throw up. I hate throwing up. Why did I leave the stupid flat?_

She reached into her pocket for her phone, to call home. She pulled it out and started to punch in numbers. Snow drifted down and a few flakes landed on the screen.

"_I think you'll look pretty when I'm done, my dear. Snowflakes. To remind you of home."_

Her eyes closed and her legs collapsed out from under her, her knees hit the ground, bruised. Her phone landed beside her. A far away voice called out through the speaker.

"Hello? Mary?"

She curled up into ball.

A strange voice sounded in her ear.

"Miss? Are you all right?"

A hand was placed on her shoulder and she jerked up suddenly, being touched was the last thing that she wanted.

Another voice sounded close by.

"It's alright sir, I know her. I've got this."

She opened her eyes and looked as a familiar face hovered beside her.

"Hello Mary. I don't believe we've met. Lukas sends his regards."

There was a sharp prick in her neck and her eyes rolled up.

The last sound she heard was John's voice as he called her name over her phone.


End file.
